Fire with Fire
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Tough love takes on a whole new meaning for Clark Kent. WARNING: Contains non-sexual spanking. Don't like, don't read.
1. Check

Fire with Fire  
  
Jackie and Cascade  
  
Rated PG13 for angst and a particular brand of justice  
  
Spoilers: Exile (S3 season premiere pt. 1)  
  
Pairings: J/M  
  
Warning: this story is just a particularly satisfying bit of anti-fluff (it's not warm and fuzzy, it's hot and harsh and totally about parental love and territorial-ness)  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own them, and no, there's absolutely no point in trying to have me arrested for assault and battery of a fictional character..  
  
-----  
  
In some ways it felt like they'd been falling forever, and there was a small part of Jonathan Kent that tugged at him to do something, to change the angle of his body and alter the direction of his descent, but then the slow-motion sensation left him and there wasn't time to explore the compulsion. He could feel Clark in his arms, whole but in shock, and wondered if his errant son realized that he was clinging to Jonathan like he had when he was small and frightened. Jon had just registered that thought when instinct told him that they would shortly be meeting concrete, and he used what control he had to flip their positions so that he landed on his back and rolled a few times, effectively shielding his son from the force of the impact.  
  
Jon heard the glass plinking down around them and often on them, and he worried a moment about cuts, but then he realized that injury was unlikely and that his first priority was to get his son home. He did note with interest how very much the impact had hurt, but everything seemed to be working and Jonathan decided that was good enough. Keeping an unbreakable grip on Clark, Jon pointed the two of them toward home, and before a crowd could gather to see them, he took off running.  
  
An exhilaratingly short while later, he arrived in front of the farmhouse, only slightly out of breath and still latched firmly onto Clark. He saw Martha standing in surprise in the open front entrance--his beautiful Martha, with her red hair and delicate frame bathed in gold lamplight, always there warming his heart, silently reminding him that he was a good man, a good husband--and a good father. He caught her eye just for an instant, and smiled because that instant was all it took for her to thank him for finding their son and bringing him home, and for her to give her trust and support to whatever he was going to do. He wasn't entirely sure himself what he was going to do yet, but he intended to keep a grip on his son until he was sure that Clark understood that leaving again was not an option.  
  
That was proving to be something of a challenge because Clark matched him in size, even though the boy's strength seemed to ebb and surge erratically- -no doubt an effect of the red kryptonite. Thinking about the rock made Jonathan's anger surge, and he drew himself up to his full height and turned to meet his son's glare, seeing Clark's eyes widen as the younger Kent suddenly realized that for the first time he was at a disadvantage. Jonathan loomed over the reflexively shrinking teenager, biting out through his teeth, "Now everything changes."  
  
Clark's eyes, wide with surprise and fear, suddenly flashed with a weak surge from the ring, and he brought his foot down on his father's foot and used Jon's moment of distraction to break free of his father's grip. To his own surprise, partially because he subconsciously knew that his father would never injure him intentionally, Clark did not consider running again, but stood his ground, his own anger and indignation taking control and overshadowing his better judgment (or, actually, any judgment he might have had that would have kept him from making his next move.) He let the radiation-induced rage carry him, and as Jonathan straightened, looking more frightening than Clark had ever seen, Clark did something that made both of his parents gasp--he roared in anger and took a power-accelerated swing at his father. 


	2. Checkmate

And missed.  
  
Years of conditioning left him unprepared for what happened--as Clark swung, putting the full force of his rage and ebbing strength behind his fist, Jonathan ducked to one side, caught Clark's arm in both hands, used his son's momentum to catch him off-balance and bring him around to Jonathan's side, and held the boy in place, growling. Turning the tables on Clark and using his son's surprise against him, Jonathan braced Clark's right arm in front of them with one hand and whipped the other hand out to yank the ring off of his son's hand. Once the ring lost contact with Clark's skin, the muscles in his hand trembled and Jonathan felt Clark jerk slightly and weaken even more; the farmer found himself almost holding his son up, as the boy started to crumple to one knee.  
  
Jonathan might have ended things there and taken his son inside if Clark hadn't chosen that moment to open his mouth. The combination of long-term exposure to the red kryptonite, sudden loss of that drug-like effect, and extreme exhaustion had the teenager acting like a small child throwing a tantrum. Bristling, defensive, indignant, trying desperately to hold onto control of the situation and refusing to admit that his father already had it, Clark half-sneered, half-whined, "Hey, that's mine, give it back! You can't do this! You and Martha are nothing! I'm a god to you, remember? You can't touch me! Besides, you won't try anything--you're not man enough!"  
  
Time seemed to stop for a moment, the air hanging silent and charged with challenge--a son challenging a father's authority and a father challenging his own power. Then the moment ended; Jonathan pivoted to glare down at his son, eyes narrowing, jaw working. With one hand still clutching Clark's upper arm and the other hand moving faster than the eye could follow, he reached out and grabbed a handful of his son's shirt, yanking the boy close enough to hear Jonathan's jaw clicking. "You know, I was ready to end this quietly ten minutes ago, but you just won't quit. So if this is the way it has to be, then fine." Furious but in total control, Jonathan snarled, "Game over. I win. Time to pay the piper." 


	3. The Agony of Defeat

Jonathan had, until this moment, not had a clue how he was going to respond to Clark's attitude. He was angry but in control and wouldn't allow his fury to drive his actions--although Clark didn't have to know that right now. He was sure, as he stood seething, that his son expected him to yell or even to beat him up, but Jonathan refused to consider acting like a thug or intentionally injuring his son. Clark was going to have to face some consequences for his actions, and Jonathan was going to have to make amends to his son for his own mistakes, but until Clark was ready to shut his mouth and deal with reality and his own vulnerability, they would never get anywhere. He needed to get Clark's attention, undivided and submissive, and none of his usual methods would serve. All of him hated this, and a part of him just wanted to drag the kid into his arms and hold on forever, but he couldn't let his son continue disrespecting himself and his parents; besides, he somehow knew that if he hugged Clark right now, the anger would tighten his grip to the point of doing real damage. He remembered how much force it took to bruise his son, and he didn't want that; he also knew that the boy was getting weaker without the ring or any real rest. Whatever was going to happen needed to be quick and decisive, a power play that would put the authority back in his hands. Frustration stoked his anger, and for the thousandth time in his son's life, Jonathan thought, "I have half a mind to."  
  
Clark couldn't remember the last time that he had been truly afraid of his father, but held half-standing, suspended by the front of his shirt, with his father's face only millimeters from him, Clark was scared. He could feel Jonathan's blue eyes staring at him with such intensity that he wondered briefly just how many of his powers his father now had.  
  
Unfortunately, a brief thought was all he had time for, as something in Jonathan's eyes shifted slightly, solidified, and Clark did not like what he saw. The teenager quickly discovered that speed and strength were the only powers that mattered as he found himself being turned around, pulled a few paces, and draped over the low part of the scalloped white fence--the curved wooden edges met him just above the waist of his jeans, leaving his lower body within reach of his father and his torso stretched, back nearly straight, chest slightly tilted toward the ground on the other side. It took Clark a moment to register what was happening--and then his jaw dropped in unmitigated shock. He tried to fight, to stand up, to kick, to do anything that would help him, but he was too weak and his father had put him in an indefensible position. He could breathe, he could twist his torso, but he couldn't rise, partially because Jonathan had laid one arm across Clark's back and was effectively pinning him. He couldn't see what Jonathan was doing with his other hand, but having heard of this kind of thing, Clark had a sickening suspicion that he knew. He turned, finding his mother with his eyes. He put on the most pitiful face and voice he could muster. "Mooooom, come on, you're not really gonna stand there and let him do this to me, are you?"  
  
Martha, surprised at being addressed, eyed the situation for a moment and then focused on her son, her tone easy and unperturbed. "Uh. yeah, yeah, actually, sounds like a plan to me."  
  
Clark shot her a betrayed look, but Jonathan's voice pulled Clark's thoughts back to what was happening. "Oh, no you don't--you talked your way into this one, but you can't talk your way out!" Jon spoke through a set jaw and clenched teeth as he struggled briefly with something Clark couldn't see.  
  
Growing more and more anxious and indignant and tired of the game, the teenager took a deep breath and tried again, this time appealing to his father to let him off the hook. "Come on, Dad, let's be reasonable here-- I'm sure we can work this out like men!"  
  
Jonathan laughed shortly as he worked with something that clinked and flapped. "Kid, I tried to reason with you, but you didn't want to act like a man--so since you're acting like a child, I'm going to treat you like a child." The farmer shifted, taking his arm from the middle of his son's back and placing that hand on Clark's lower spine, just above the waistline of his jeans. The teenager inhaled sharply, trying to calm himself, telling himself that his father wouldn't really do what Clark thought his father wanted to do. He never had before--of course, up until tonight, it would have literally hurt his father more than it hurt Clark. Of course he wouldn't do this; Jonathan was soft. Relieved that he'd satisfied his own anxiety, he relaxed, grinning slightly as he said, "Aw, come on, Dad, let me up--we both know you're not really gonna do it--you love me too much; and besides, even if you tried, you couldn't make it hurt."  
  
In Clark's relaxed state, Jonathan's "Wanna bet?" hit him just a second before the belt did, the leather snapping against ultra-thin layers of cotton and denim, and the teenager suddenly remembered that he had nothing in his back pockets. As the searing sting bit into his pain receptors, he suddenly understood why Pete had always called them licks--it was like being touched by flame. He could tell that his father was holding back, not using anywhere near his new full strength, and with an effort, he kept his mouth shut, refusing to react, trying to be tough, but when the second lick snapped a little lower, he gave a loud "Ow!" He was hoping that would satisfy his father, that Jonathan would be fooled into believing that Clark had gotten the point and would stop before it got any more embarrassing or painful.  
  
That hope was dispelled when a third lick came mere seconds later, and Clark gave up on the idea of respite and concentrated on keeping quiet, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. The fourth brought an involuntary grunt from his throat and tears to his eyes, and the fifth made it intensely difficult not to cry out. By the sixth lick, he gave up trying to stay silent and tried to tell his dad that he was sorry for how he'd acted; to his own surprise, it was true--he'd lost his anger and indignation and just wanted this to be over. He tasted salt and realized that his tears were no longer under his control. He managed not to sob; his words were quiet and stuttering, interrupted by the next lick, but Jonathan seemed to understand and said, "I know, son, and it'll be over soon." Clark shut his eyes and cried out weakly as the eighth lick came. He winced and gripped the fence, making dents with his fingers but not able to break the wood. With his heart pounding in his ears, it took him a moment to understand that Jonathan had stopped.  
  
Quiet fell over the yard as Jon dropped his arm; all three Kents were breathing hard. Martha watched as Jonathan wiped the back of his belt hand across his brow, sweeping away sweat, then moved his hand down to brush his wrist back over his eyes. When he finished, he raised his head, looking pale and drawn and vaguely nauseated. After a few seconds, in a startling burst of anger, he whipped around and threw the belt with all of his strength, and even in the light Martha knew she wouldn't have been able to see where it landed. Calm again, Jonathan slowly completed his circle, turning back to look at the helpless form of their son.  
  
It was time to put their child back together. 


	4. Surrender

-----  
  
Clark was still draped over the fence, still holding the tops of a couple of the boards but no longer applying pressure. His back ached, his knees were shaking, his chest was heaving, his stomach felt unsteady, and no matter how hard he tried he just could not stop crying. He was embarrassed but not angry; his shock had overridden pretty much everything else except the pain and the realization that he alone was responsible for his predicament. He had defiled the trust of every person who mattered to him, had given away his sense of self-respect to a piece of cheap metal and unnatural rock, had allowed a disembodied voice to define who and what he was, and for all this, he had been stripped not only of his powers, but of the confidence the ring lent him, of the freedom he had coveted, and of his pride. Now he didn't know how to fix it or even if he could; he knew that his parents cared about him, but right now he didn't understand how anyone could love him, let alone forgive him. Jonathan's determination and discipline had broken Clark's arrogance and will, but Clark had broken himself.  
  
Jonathan gave Clark a minute to cool down and just breathe; then he approached his son slowly. When he pulled up beside the teenager, he gently laid his left hand flat on Clark's back, over his spine and just below his shoulder blades; the boy didn't seem to know that his father was there. Jonathan leaned forward until he could see part of his son's face, and his heart wrenched as he saw the tears and recognized the shamed look in the downcast eyes--the look of a little boy who was lost.  
  
Jonathan didn't have all the answers, he didn't have a magic wand to wave to make everything better, but he was certain of one thing--Clark needed to understand that, wherever he might go and however lost he might become, his father would always find him and he would always bring him home.  
  
Clark wasn't aware of his dad until Jonathan spoke softly. "Clark?" The boy jumped, startled, and his heart skipped a beat. Jonathan's eyes tightened apologetically, but he kept his hand on Clark's back and leaned just a little closer. "Clark, son? Can you look at me?" Jon's voice was soft and low, his words slow and gentle. He was a little surprised when, after a moment, his son slowly shook his head and lowered his face even more. Jonathan sighed sadly, looked over his shoulder at Martha, thought for a moment, then nodded slightly to himself as he came to a resolution. He stepped closer to the teenager, reaching out and using the fingertips of his right hand to gingerly turn the young face toward him; he noticed, with a pang, the pale skin and tear stains and the blood on his son's lower lip. Jonathan released the trembling chin and moved carefully, sliding his left hand to Clark's left side, just under his arm, and putting his right hand under his son's right arm. He gently coaxed the boy to a standing position by using his new strength to slowly pull Clark's torso upright and murmuring constant encouragement; when Clark was more or less upright, Jon positioned himself so that Clark's right arm rested across Jon's shoulder and Jon's left arm cradled Clark's back and left side. "Come on, big guy, let's get you inside; we'll make sure you're okay, and your mom can get some food into you." Clark blushed slightly at his father's whisper, feeling a warm, bruising blade of pain in his core because it actually hurt to hear loving words through his haze of shame.  
  
They walked slowly, side by side, with Clark slumped and shaking is his father's grasp. Jonathan could feel his son's insecurity as surely as he could feel Clark's weight in his arms, and with every step he silently swore again an oath to restore his son's assurance in their family and in his own worth. Jor-El had told Clark that he was a god among men, but even in death Jor-El suffered from a bad case of hubris. The Kryptonian didn't know God, he didn't know mankind, and he didn't know Jonathan Kent's son. The farmer might only be human, but he was a real man and a real father, and he knew that in his arms he held the seed, nearly ready for harvest, of a great man worthy of any price. 


	5. The Reclaiming

-----  
  
It was only a twenty-foot walk from the fence to the front porch, but it seemed to stretch on forever; all the farmer wanted was for this to be over, but he couldn't rush the teenager. Jon could feel that Clark's knees were watery and he could hear the sniffles the boy tried to hide. Though Clark was totally submissive and never tried to pull away or flee, when they reached the bottom of the porch steps, he shuffled to a halt, gazing up at the house and then slowly turning down his eyes to look at himself; Jonathan somehow knew that Clark felt unworthy to enter the simple sanctity of their home. When Jonathan felt his son breaking all over again, he tightened his arms, leaning toward the teenager's ear and murmuring, "Come on, son, it's okay, this is where you belong." He gently nudged Clark back into motion, and they both concentrated on working their way up the stairs; Clark's breath frequently caught and the skin around his eyes tightened in pain, but he let himself be guided to the top.  
  
Clark kept his head down as Jon moved him across the porch. When they reached the threshold, he felt his father squeeze him gently to get his attention, and he slowly lifted his head, feeling that warm blade cutting in a physical pain that radiated through his torso and from his shoulders to his fingertips. The pain gripped his core, squeezing his heart and lungs, dragging him down, until he found momentary respite when his breath was taken away by a pair of jewel eyes bright with unshed tears.  
  
Gazing into his mother's eyes, Clark felt an unexpected flame of resentment flare and then just as quickly die inside him, replaced by a burning flood of fresh shame and sorrow. To his surprise, though, Martha's eyes held only pain and grief for him and relief for herself. She reflexively put her hands over her mouth, as if in shock, but after a moment she reached out, not quite reaching him but beckoning him toward her.  
  
Clark stood transfixed; he couldn't take his eyes from his mother, and he didn't think he could move the two inches it would take to cross from the rapidly chilling domain of the outside world into the warm safety of the Kent home. Jonathan gave him a nudge, and when that didn't help, the farmer silently sighed and gently lifted his son just enough to place him firmly inside the house, less than twelve inches from Martha's shimmering gaze.  
  
Jonathan saw the moment his wife and son renewed their connection, and he smiled a bit in satisfaction as the two people he loved the most finally came face to face with what they needed most. He made sure that Clark was fairly steady on his feet, then reluctantly handed him off to Martha, knowing that his wife would understand without the need for words.  
  
Martha made the transition easily, naturally. She reached out again, this time committing, and gently slipped her hands up to cradle both sides of his face. She felt the texture of his pale skin, chilled from the night air and wet from perspiration and emotion. When she touched him, Clark drew in his breath again, and his tears welled fresh and hot with the contact. His mouth worked helplessly as he tried to form words to convey what he'd needed her to know for months and hadn't been able to say, but she shook her head slightly and tenderly placed her thumb over his lips for a moment, stilling him and letting him know that she was in control of this reunion and that was okay. He stopped trying to speak and just looked at her pleadingly; his eyes gave her everything, all of who he was, a total surrender of his will, and begged her to show him what to do, what to be. His tears spilled down his cheeks and over her hands, as if cleansing and sanctifying their link. With her eyes she accepted his submission and claimed him as hers, as theirs, unfinished but well-crafted and strong of essence. Knowing that he needed the reassurance that she still knew him when he wasn't sure he knew himself, and needing for her own peace of mind to make sure that this was real and that her child was really home, Martha gently pulled Clark's head down, tilting hers up so that their foreheads met, and both pairs of eyes closed, long lashes fanning over two sets of damp cheeks as her tears of relief finally came. Little things came to her, things only a parent would notice--his skin was slightly chilled and she could feel sweat on his brow from the evening's stress; his hair curled against her fingertips, in sore need of a good combing and washing and trim; his breath was warm and stuttered, and the smell of peppermint and something she hoped wasn't beer was so faint that she wondered how many days it had been since he'd eaten anything. His pulse pounded behind his forehead, and his mother thrust out all of her mental energy through their bond, wanting nothing more than to quiet his fears and help him understand that he was home.  
  
She held him like that for perhaps two minutes in total stillness, and then she felt his hands, trembling and tentative, cover hers, not to push her away but to hold her closer to him. Her knees wanted to give out with the release of her tension, but she could feel how her son still quivered, and she knew that she had to stay strong for him, just as she had for fourteen years, just as Jonathan had for both of them for longer than that. In some part of the back of her mind, Martha could sense her husband moving with purpose, could hear him shifting things quietly and making some sort of arrangements, but right then for most of her conscious mind nothing existed outside of herself and her son.  
  
Eventually, no longer able to resist the need to feel her son in her arms, Martha brought Clark's head down to the side, tucking his chin onto her shoulder, and pulled him close, gathering him to her as his ragged breathing changed to silent sobs. She could feel the exhaustion that permeated every fiber of his being, and she knew that he needed more than simple food and sleep to renew his strength--he needed rest, real rest to restore his stability and security, and she knew both she and her husband were determined to be his refuge.  
  
She held him tight, one arm across his back and the other up his spine with a hand protectively cupping the back of his head, until she felt a warm touch on her own back and turned her head, opening her eyes to see her husband next to her with an approving look in his eyes; she nodded slightly, seeing what he wanted, and when he put a hand on Clark's back and the boy pulled himself up a bit to turn a confused gaze on his father, she nudged her son toward Jonathan, sliding to one side so that she could support Clark without monopolizing him.  
  
The two parents slowly helped their son move into the kitchen, where Martha almost laughed at what her husband had done--there, in the middle of the floor, next to the table which had been moved a foot to one side, sat a dining chair, its seat piled high with various pillows from the couch and the downstairs storage closet. Jon and Martha escorted Clark over to the chair, then turned him and slowly lowered him onto the newly plush seat, with Jonathan providing most of the balance and the steadying assurance of his touch.  
  
Everything went fairly smoothly until Clark let his weight rest on the pile of padding--and then his eyes widened, he emitted a whimper that was really more of a squeak, and he shot straight up again. Knowing more about what to expect than Clark did, Jonathan was right there, and he caught his son's shoulders and lowered him gently but firmly back onto the pile. Clark blanched and pursed his lips, and he looked like he wanted to scream, but his father caught his gaze and held it, cupping his chin and murmuring to him. "Breathe through it, son, breathing helps; I know it hurts but you've got to breathe." Jonathan held onto his chin and his focus, breathing with him until Clark calmed. The boy was still wincing and whimpering slightly, but he got a grip on himself and reined in the impulse to stand up. He tried to find some anger or resentment for his father, but he didn't have the energy and he could see in his dad's eyes that Jonathan was far from enjoying this.  
  
When Jon was sure that his son was settled in his position and ready to listen, the farmer released the young chin and shoulder and nodded to Martha, who was already pulling out dishes and utensils. As she glided to the refrigerator to rescue the milk and the King Ranch casserole she'd made that afternoon, Jonathan reached into a drawer and took out a clean hand towel, then moved around behind his son, laying the towel on the floor behind the chair. Jonathan took his son's shoulders and gently levered him back to lean against the back of the chair. Then he slipped two fingers into his own shirt pocket, sliding out one of his own combs that he'd grabbed while he was readying the chair and table. As Martha watched from the microwave nook, Jonathan smoothed Clark's matted, wavy hair back from his forehead, and then he slipped the teeth of the comb into the front of his son's hair near the roots and began to draw it back slowly, concerned about glinting bits of sharp glass that might hurt the newly vulnerable scalp and ears. As he came to the sides of his son's head, he checked each of those ears in turn, capable fingers nudging the soft tissue and probing the sensitive areas with infinite care. Clark closed his eyes at the tenderness of his father's touch, and he was surprised that he had to fight an urge to lean back against his father as Jonathan drew in a breath and spoke in low, measured tones.  
  
"Now, I think it's time that we set some things straight." 


	6. The Reopening

Jonathan carefully moved his fingers over his son's head. The black hair was so matted and dirty that he was meticulous about finding bits of glass and anything else that might harm his son. He didn't know how long Clark's vulnerability would last, or what else to expect in the withdrawal from the drug effects of the red kryptonite, but he intended to be prepared to handle whatever came--Clark would have to face and suffer some consequences for his choices, but he wouldn't be doing it alone.

As glass plinked onto the thin towel on the floor, Jonathan began to speak in low, even tones, his words slow and clear. He needed Clark to hear and understand every word, to feel the Kents' emotions and grasp the fact that the power to tear metal or see through walls or rule the world could not compare to the sheer force of a parent's devotion.

"We have a lot to talk about, Clark, more than we can deal with in one night, but first I have something to say to you, because before you can face the reality of your choices, I need to face the reality of mine."

He took a deep, slightly trembling breath, fighting to keep a grip on his emotions and his tone as he opened his own wound and let it bleed a little. "Clark, I need you to know that I'm deeply sorry for the mistakes I made the day of the explosion. I've spent the past three months praying for the chance to apologize to you, to take responsibility for the role I played in your decision to run. It was still your choice, and it was still wrong, but I won't pretend that I had nothing to do with it.

"You see, I've had three months to think about this, to think about how I failed you when you needed me most, to be disgusted and furious with myself and to be willing to give anything to be able to look you in the eyes and tell you how very much I wish I could take back what I said to you that day, or rather, what I didn't say." He stopped his glass inspection, laid the comb on the table, stepped around to Clark's side, and turned his son's chin so that the teenager was looking directly up at him. He looked deep into the bloodshot eyes that had haunted his dreams all summer, took a deep breath, and fully opened his own wound.

"Anger is a two-edged sword, son; one edge—anger born of fear--can be used as a weapon, to draw blood, to exact retribution; and the other edge—anger born of love--can be used as a tool, to lend the energy to get through the battles that are worth fighting. I used the wrong edge—I let my fear and grief color my choices. And then the other edge came back to slice into me.

"Son, that day I was traumatized--we all were--and I was trying so hard to hold it together for me and for your mother, and, I thought, for you. When I woke, I thought it was going to be such a good day, but by dinnertime I'd lost one child and nearly lost my wife, and by the time the day was over, I'd lost my other child, partially because I let anger and fear guide me instead of trusting my instincts--and to be honest, I shouldn't have trusted you. I know that sounds harsh, and I'm sorry, but it didn't take me long to figure out that if I hadn't taken you at your word when you lied about not hearing the voice anymore, if I had trusted my instincts saying that you were lying to me, if I had just stayed and pushed, I might have gotten something out of you, might have prevented the pain and grief. My trust in you could be rebuilt with time and work; I'm afraid your faith in me might be totally destroyed.

"And then there was what happened at the hospital; you'd been in a serious explosion, and I didn't bother to ask if you were okay, just let my eyes tell me you weren't bleeding so you must be unscathed. I'm your father; I, of all people, should have remembered that you carry all of your scars inside. But I didn't push, I didn't even reach out and touch you because I didn't trust myself. I was trying so hard to control my tongue and not say some of the things that crossed my mind, because whether they were true or not, they would have served no purpose but to strike back at you for being an impulsive teenager, and that wouldn't have given me any satisfaction; I almost told you, among other things, to grow up and start acting like a man, but the fact is that you're not a man. You don't have to be a man yet--on your way, yes, but not there yet. You're a boy, a kid, and I had to remind myself that you're still learning. The problem was, I should have reminded you of that.

"See, I said so very little because I wasn't willing to say anything that would make the situation worse, to say something we would both regret later. I was trying so hard not to hurt you, not to destroy you, but by not telling you what you needed to hear, I defeated myself, and when it all came down to it, at the moment of truth, I loved you and wanted you but at the same time I wanted to lash out. What I did say was all true and justified, but what's true and justified is not always helpful or appropriate. I was grieving for the baby and for your mother and myself, and in a way I was grieving for you, but I didn't tell you that. I didn't tell you anything you hadn't already figured out for yourself. I had one good chance to speak to you, to connect with you, and I blew it because I was thinking with the part of my brain that's keyed to my own feelings, rather than the part of me that's keyed to you. In that place, in that moment, with your mother injured and part of our family lost, I needed to have been your father, not your accuser, but I fell short."

Jonathan briefly closed his eyes in his own pain and shame, then opened them and resolutely followed through on his commitment. "I thought at the time that I was acting in your best interests, that I was even being gracious because I know that a lot of guys would have gone ballistic, would have yelled and screamed and maybe even verbally disowned their sons, but I know now that I was really just being incredibly selfish, trying to defend my own pain and grief and anger and be some sort of twisted martyr by sparing you.

"I was grieving and I was furious with you and even more so with Jor-El, and I was afraid to tell you that because I thought you might shut down on me and then we'd never get to where I thought we needed to be--you fully feeling what your actions had reaped and us being merciful and granting you grace. But that's not what grace is, and frankly I think if I'd just told you all of that, you might have stayed to fight it out, and I might have been able to save both of us. I realized the next day that in the end, if I'd been more thoughtful, just a bit more compassionate, I might have somehow made you feel it was worth it to stay and try to work through what had happened. But like I said, I was being selfish--in just that last moment, I wanted you to feel some of the pain I was feeling, like that could make up for what we were going through; right then, I didn't want to think about you and what you needed and how you were going to get through this."

Jonathan crouched beside his son, making himself level with the boy. "Clark, please understand that I have hated myself every minute since you left for being human, for not putting aside my own anger to take care of you," he reached up and brushed a lock of dark hair from the pale forehead, "for not being the incredible kind of man I know you will be soon. I love you so much, son, so much that it frightens me sometimes, and I hurt for you and for what I didn't do for you; it literally kills me, I die inside to think that you left here and spent three months feeling like I'd rejected you. You **are** my son, Clark Jerome Kent, and nothing you or I or anyone else says or does can ever change that. **No one** has that power."

He tilted his head and just gazed at his son for a moment, at the swollen eyes bright with fresh tears, and then he straightened his head and spoke at barely more than a whisper, cradling Clark's chin on the crook of his index finger. "I'm sorry, son. I am so deeply sorry. I've hurt you, I've scarred you, and all the duct tape and band-aids and ice cream in the world can't fix this. You're my son and I still have ultimate authority over you, but this is one thing I can't demand; Clark, no one can force you to do this, but I would be truly grateful if you'd decide to try to forgive me and let me try to build back your faith in me. Can you think about that for me?"

Clark was looking at his father with surprise and no small amount of trepidation, but he knew deep within himself that because Jonathan Kent had a lot of integrity, he would not have bared his heart and soul like that unless he meant every word. Clark remembered the anger and resentment, and most of all, the gnawing hurt of his father's rejection, but he'd never expected Jon to acknowledge it and apologize for it. Clark had never expected to speak to his father again, for that matter, so to be sitting here, at home, feeling a physical pain he'd never anticipated and an emotional agony he wasn't sure he could process, was incredible--and if he was totally honest with himself, even despite the pain there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. The problem was that he had no place here; he was an alien, a force of destruction toward the people he most wanted to protect, unworthy of any of this. He didn't understand why his parents, his heroes were treating him as though he belonged there with them, but he didn't have the strength now to argue, to tell them they were wrong and that they should forget that he existed. He couldn't even manage to tell them that he recognized that Jonathan was taking too much of the blame, that even if Jon had been more supportive, Clark might still have felt obligated to leave in order to protect those he loved. For the moment, he was helpless--exhausted, drained beyond words, in a state of total surrender, transfixed by the love and determination in those blue eyes, and he found that he could only nod, willing his father to accept absolution.

Jonathan saw the offering in his son's eyes, not that Clark would think about forgiving him but that he had forgiven him, instantly and unconditionally, and Jonathan closed his own eyes to contain the sheer force of his pride and affection for his son. As so many of his feelings seemed to be doing tonight, the rush of emotion washed over him, filling his eyes and throat and chest and threatening to rattle him apart at the seams. Crouched there, with his eyes closed in what was very close to a prayer of humility and a request for inner strength greater than his newly acquired outer power, Jonathan edged his tongue between his upper and lower teeth and exhaled slowly. After a moment he slowly opened his eyes to meet Clark's again; he gazed at his son's pale, sad face and just as he guiltily registered that they needed to see to Clark's injured lip, he felt a slight pressure against the front of his shoulder. He reached up and found his wife nestling something into the palm of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that it was a clean, soft washcloth wrapped around a homemade ice pack. He turned his head to nod up at her, smiling in a kind of gratitude that can only be shared between entwined souls, and she smiled back tremulously, also handing him another washcloth that she'd lovingly soaked in warm water. He'd been so absorbed in their son that he'd tuned out her movements, but here she was, as always one step ahead of him, more than simply a helpmeet—she was his balance.

Martha gazed mistily at the scene before her, of her precious son home and intact, of her powerful husband lowering himself to eye-level so that he could care for their child. She'd been keeping herself in the background for a reason—even though she had been hurt and scared by her son's actions and by Jor-El's lack of respect for life, most of Clark's actions had been designed to hurt himself and his father. She knew that she would get her chance alone with her son later, but for right now, she was content to see to the details while Jonathan addressed the bigger issues. She knew that she was not a fixture in either of their minds, that they loved and needed her, and that right now she was doing the best for both of them by stepping back. She was giving them no choice but to face each other and themselves and to learn that they would survive the experience.

So she busied herself fixing a plate of leftovers for her son, heating the casserole in the microwave and adding some buttered cornbread and a tall glass of warm milk to help him relax. She knew she should be giving him water to replenish his system, but she was going on instinct here, and instinct told her that the calmer Clark became in his own skin, the easier it would be for him to recover. It took her a few minutes to register, through the numbing haze of relief, that Clark's lower lip was open and needed tending. Jonathan was at the perfect level to see to the injury, and Clark needed to be reminded that the hands that occasionally delivered pain usually offered comfort and security. It disconcerted her that her son's body wasn't repairing itself, but with an effort she quieted her thoughts, recalling that the boy had been almost constantly in a drugged state for three months and then had had the instrument of abuse suddenly removed—it wasn't fair to expect him to be all sorted out so soon. He needed her support, her love, and her commitment, and she would give them, tenderly and firmly, with everything she had.

Jonathan saw all of this in Martha's eyes as she handed him the ice pack and the warm cloth. He turned back to Clark and sucked in a breath; Clark was so pale that the blood stood out, a true garnet shade startling in its intensity, against the pallor of his skin. He had stopped crying a few moments ago, but for some reason Jon was sure that the flood wasn't over yet.

He folded the warm cloth over his fingers, creating a kind of pad of softness, and raised it to dab at the cut on Clark's lip. Out of pain and self-preservation reflex, Clark pulled his head back, but Jonathan just sighed and put his left hand behind Clark's head, gently holding it in place. "I know it's painful, son, but you're going to have to let me take care of it; the more you fight it, the more it'll hurt." As Clark squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered with a pained expression, Jonathan dabbed at the cut and thought about how his son's split lip correlated to the bigger issues here. All the farmer really wanted to do was to take his son in his arms and never…let…go; but he knew that they needed to work through some things and come to an understanding about exactly what had happened and what they could each expect from now on. With every breath he hated more the conviction that the affection and reassurance and tenderness would have to wait until the hard part of this reunion was finished and all of them were back in synch. In order for his son—and his family—to heal, the wound caused by Clark's actions would have to be opened and cleaned and treated.

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	7. The Reconnecting

While he collected his thoughts and tried to muster faith that he could say what his son needed most to hear, and in the way that would be best for his child, without letting his own feelings get in the way, Jonathan carefully touched every part of the surprisingly long and deep tear in his son's rapidly swelling lip. Clark must have been in substantial pain, because he'd come fairly close to biting all the way through his lower lip to the inside of his mouth. His father winced on his behalf but continued to catch the blood, gingerly working a bit of the cloth into the cut and trying to staunch the flow. Clark whimpered and looked like he was going to start crying again, but Jonathan moved his left thumb, rubbing at the base of Clark's skull, where oversensitive nerves were quivering, and the boy released a breath and a little bit of tension. Jonathan kept up this routine for another minute or so, then put the warm cloth on the corner of the table and picked up the ice pack; he pressed it gently against the cut and held it there, knowing what was coming. Clark whimpered again and jerked a bit, but when he opened his eyes in fear, his father saw that the boy wasn't trying to fight him; the reaction was a reflex, and Jonathan empathized, remembering more than one split lip of his own.

"I know, son, but you're doing well; you're going to be fine." His tone was soft, and he saw trust warring with pain in his son's eyes. He knew that Clark deeply needed reassurance and solace, and the teenager would get as much as his father could dish out, but only when Jonathan was sure his son understood why he was hurting and that his father cared very much about making him feel better.

Once he was sure the bleeding had stopped, Jonathan gently took Clark's right hand and placed it over the ice pack, folding the trembling fingers over the softness of the cloth. When the boy showed that he understood what his father wanted and held the pack in place himself, Jonathan nodded slightly, brushed his hand lightly down the side of his son's wrist, and stood up, unfolding his powerful frame with new ease.

As her husband surveyed the situation and decided how to proceed, Martha gave in to her better judgment and brought their son a tall glass of chilled water. He started to gulp it, but about halfway through the glass, he stopped, looking vaguely sick. His mother murmured to him to slow down; the teenager took a deep breath and then an obedient slow sip; for the next minute or so, he alternated sipping the water and holding the ice pack to his battered lip, trying to manage two sources of distress at once. Then the microwave dinged, and she walked over and carefully removed the steaming dish of casserole, adding a dry slice of freshly toasted bread and pouring the milk from the stove into a glass. As she gathered napkins and a fork for her son, she glanced at her husband; he caught her eye and nodded, letting her know that he was still in step with her.

While Martha waited by the counter, expertly juggling the bland feast, Jonathan leaned down behind Clark; the teenager physically shrank from his father but stayed in the chair. Jonathan grasped the edges of Clark's chair seat and easily lifted the whole package—sturdy wooden chair, three pillows, and 400lb cowering teenage boy—turning his son to face the table and scooting him into place. Martha glided over and smoothly placed the dishes in front of her son, gently taking the ice pack out of his hand and slipping the handle of the fork into his now-empty palm. Clark looked at the fork and then at her in confusion, as if the idea of eating had never occurred to him, but when she nodded encouragingly toward the plate, he obediently—if slowly—slipped the fork into the casserole and cut himself a tiny bite. Martha sighed to herself, knowing that none of this was going to come easily, and resolved herself to be satisfied with what she got.

Clark chewed slowly; he was grateful and amazed that his mother would still want to nurture him this way, but at the moment he couldn't really taste anything, and every nerve in his body was hypersensitized, so every contact, every sensation, was magnified. The heat from the food was almost too much for his mouth and throat, but he knew his mother hadn't intended to cause a problem and he didn't have the energy to blow on the casserole to cool it. He was still in a great deal of pain from his father's wake-up call, though he still couldn't find any anger or resentment toward Jonathan, and he realized that some of the intensity was actually caused by the serious jolt his system had taken when the ring had left contact with his skin. So he chewed slowly and carefully, trying to get sustenance past the massive lump in his throat and through the Richter-worthy quake zone formerly known as his stomach.

He was working his way through his first tiny bite of toast when he felt something that made him freeze momentarily. Two large, strong hands came to rest on his shoulders, at first still but then moving, fingers flexing and palms rocking rhythmically. The motions were firm enough to feel penetrating and effective, but tender in a way that Clark couldn't have put into words. The massage was yet another surprise, one that evoked such deep gratitude and awe that Clark nearly sobbed. In a startling instant of clarity, he realized that, even before his disappearing act, it had been a very long time since he had just accepted and experienced his father's touch. Since the first day Clark had entered their lives, Jonathan had dusted the boy's life with little physical expressions of affection, but Clark had taken them for granted for so long that, sitting there in the kitchen, wrapped in pain and remorse and uncertainty, he got the distinct impression that he was really feeling his father's touch for the first time in too long. In a way, the contact was almost electrifying, as if their spirits were reacting to one another, and at the same time it was incredibly comforting. Clark found himself leaning into his father at every turn tonight, and though he supposed he should be properly embarrassed at his age, this night he couldn't muster anything other than gratitude and a deep craving for more.

Jonathan felt Clark's stillness and realized the boy was afraid that if he moved the rubbing would stop; the farmer smiled a little to himself and kept kneading, leaning down to whisper for his son to keep eating and drinking his water and milk. He heard his son's sigh of relief as he relaxed a little, and Jonathan kept his hands moving, alternating between his son's shoulders and the back of the smooth neck. At one point he kept his hands on the neck and shoulders, and moved his index fingers up to gently massage the tender area just beneath the joints of Clark's lower jaw.

When Clark was eating again and Jonathan couldn't put it off any longer, the father started to speak. He kept his voice low and slow and even, his tone deadly serious, and his hands tender—a testament to the fact that what he had to say was painful and hard for all of them, and he wouldn't be saying it if his son wasn't precious to him.

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	8. The Reckoning

"Now that I have you safe where you belong, and I'm fairly sure I have your attention, I'm going to say some things you need to hear and you're going to listen. We've all been running from too many issues for too long, but running away is not acceptable and we won't tolerate it anymore, from ourselves or from you; we've waited for months in silence for a resolution, but the silence ends now. It's time we talk about accountability—yours in particular. You're our son, Clark, and we love you very much--nothing has the power to change that--but you need to understand that your actions over the past few months have serious consequences--and we're going to deal with them now.

"First, the lying. Specifically, you lying to us. I'm sorry that you can't be completely honest with your friends; believe me, I hate it just about as much as you do because I know it makes your life more difficult than it should be, and that's not fair. But Clark, none of this is fair to any of us. Your mother and I have kept your secrets longer than you've known about them, and we only kept them from you until you were ready to handle them. We could have handled what you were going through with Jor-El, could have helped you deal with it, but you didn't give us that credit; you chose to lie to us about it instead. We should be able to trust each other as a family, but it's pretty obvious that you don't trust us and haven't for a while now, and as much as it pains me to say it, son, your actions make it pretty clear that we can't trust you. We'd really like that to change, but that will have to be your decision—if you do want our trust back, you're going to have to be willing to give it work and time, and if you don't care about our trust, then the next couple of years are going to be rough around here, because I'm telling you right now that there won't be any moving back to the city every time things get sticky here. We are a family; we love each other unconditionally, we stick together, and we try to deal with challenges as a family. We have to be honest with each other—we owe each other that respect. And it seems to me, son, that you haven't really shown a lot of respect for us lately, or for your friends, or for yourself for that matter, and that has got to change."

Jonathan felt Clark tense again beneath his hands, and his own heart clenched, but he knew that they all needed to hear this, to endure this cleansing and make room for healing. Resolve unwavering, he took a breath and continued.

"I will be the first to admit that I have unintentionally allowed you to get away with far too much disrespectful behavior, and now we're all paying for my failings and your choices. Some of it is pretty obvious stuff—calling your mother and me by our given names, sneering or shrugging when we tell you things, being dishonest with us, discounting your friends' intelligence in your relationships. But then there's also the evasive attitude when we want to know what's going on in your life, the whining and wheedling, playing us against each other to get your way, and let's not forget using red kryptonite—which you know is basically a drug to you and would eventually kill you—and taking a swing at me. And the worst of it by far is the running away. This is all childish behavior, Clark, but this isn't child's play; you're better than all of this. We don't expect you to be a man yet, but we do expect you to behave as though you know that you are worthy of respect, and that means acting with honor and dignity and treating others with the same respect. You're going to have to work to earn back some respect from us and from your friends, and it won't be easy but it will be worth the effort."

Clark had stopped eating, and with each issue Jonathan addressed, the boy's head hung lower. Jonathan took the opportunity to put his thumbs to work on the knots in the back of Clark's neck, keeping his movements rhythmic and his voice low.

"We also seem to have an issue with disobedience. Part of showing us respect and of behaving responsibly and with honor is following our instructions. When we ask you to do something we have a right to expect you to do it, whether you like it or not, and when we ask you not to do something there's generally a very good reason—usually because we're trying to protect you from danger or pain. Contrary to popular opinion, we don't go around spouting platitudes all day just for the fun of it, son; we say what we think you need to hear in that moment, and we have a right to expect you to listen. We have authority over you so that we can keep you safe and help you become the great man we know you can be; that means we have a right to your respect and obedience. That also means that you have the right to expect us to be there for you in any way we can, and to love you unfailingly whether it feels good or not, and to give you a reason to avoid doing things that put your safety or your health or your integrity at risk. So there are consequences for disobedience and disrespect in this family, some of which you're already feeling and some which you'll face tomorrow." Jonathan let his hands lay still on Clark's shoulders long enough for the father to lean down, murmuring gently in his son's ear. "We will get through this, I promise."

He straightened and started kneading the juncture between Clark's neck and shoulders, drawing a breath in an effort to stay calm as he stepped into the part of this accounting that upset him the most.

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	9. The Resetting

"But, son," he said, dropping halfway into a crouch, hovering just above his son's eye level and placing his hands on the edges of the wooden seat, bracketing the shrinking teenager, "what hurts us more than anything about all of this is that you chose to give up your power--not over matter and gravity and motion, but over your own life, your own path--to a disembodied voice of someone you have never known, and when you made that choice you condemned us to witness it. You consigned us to spend more than three months basically blindfolded and bound, able to hear you calling for help but unable to see you and with no way to get to where you were. Thinking about the things that could have been happening to you, things far more twisted than even a normal kid might face, was worse than dying." He leaned in a little closer, so that he filled his son's vision, taking advantage of being bigger and stronger. "Maybe you think that's what happened to you; maybe you want to believe that you felt that way when Jor-El told you that you had to give yourself over to him to save us, but let me tell you something, kid--you think you hurt now? You think you feel powerless now? You have no idea what powerless feels like until someone you love more than all the worlds is in pain and in danger and you can't make it stop!" Clark blinked at the low-riding force that separated those last three words and made their impact as effective as jabs. Riding that wave, Jonathan drove home the rest of the point. "It leads me to wonder, son, if you'd really ever considered the fact that your choices have consequences for not just you, but everyone around you. It hurts us, it infuriates us, it scares us to realize just how easily you allowed that voice to convince you that we could betray everything we've ever taught you, everything we are, and just stop loving you and being your parents. That says to me that either we have somehow failed so completely as parents that we have damaged you far more than Jor-El could ever hope to, or you have spent your entire life laughing at everything this family stands for."

Clark could no longer meet his father's gaze but was shaking his head vigorously, sobbing quietly but hard, whispering hoarsely that that wasn't true. Face downturned, he felt rather than saw his father rise and look down at him from above.

"I want to believe you, son, I really do," Jonathan's ragged voice filtered through Clark's hitched breath and the roaring in his ears. "And maybe that makes me a cosmic fool, but I can deal with that because I'm not about to give up on you--I still believe in you, Clark. We still believe in you. Now, I promised you that we would get through this, and we will, but it's not going to be easy. Since you're obviously so eager to put your life and your destiny into someone else's hands, your mother and I will be taking them back and keeping them for you for awhile longer; and we're sorry that it has to hurt so much--we hope you know that we would never have chosen this pain for you--but this isn't the end of it. There are still consequences that have to be dealt with, both here and outside these doors."

He reached down and touched his son's chin. "Look at me, please, Clark, I need to know that you are hearing me." The boy slowly looked up at his father through swollen eyes. "Good." Jonathan kept his tone as steady and solid as he could. "This home has always been a place of safety, and that will not change. That means that for the time being, life around here is going to be very predictable--you will go to school, and you will know that we are expecting nothing less than your best there. You will come directly home, take care of your chores, do your homework, eat with us, do whatever extra work we find for you--and there will be extra work--and go to bed when you're told. You will not leave the yard without our express permission. You will not have visitors without our permission. You will not whine, you will not make excuses, you will not try to bargain with us. You will be expected to be on time to all of your classes, to chores, to meals, and with assignments. You will do what you're asked to do. You will sleep in your room, you will do your homework in the kitchen, and you will stay out of the loft. These rules may change in time, but when they do, it will be because your mother and I agree that you're ready to handle it. There are consequences for your actions, Clark--if you follow the rules, the consequences will be worth the work. If you defy or disrespect us, the consequences will involve less freedom and more pain." The farmer saw his son wince at this pointed reference. "Yes, that's right, son, tonight does not have to be a one-hit wonder. You have more to deal with in the morning, and after that, your behavior will determine whether or not you find yourself in that position again. We'll also talk tomorrow about work you can do to pay down the damages you caused." Then, maintaining eye contact, he leaned down a bit closer to the boy. "I can't speak for anyone else, but you can believe me when I tell you that here you will be forgiven, here you will be claimed, wanted, needed, and when you stand you will not stand alone. Your choices brought you to this; because we love you and want more for you, because you are a boy and still need help like any other boy, we're not giving you a choice about the way things will be for now. But, son, we are offering you something more than that--we're offering you the opportunity to take this time to decide what kind of man you want to be when it comes time for you to take the controls again and fly your own course."

For a few moments, silence reigned again, broken only by the ticking of the clock, the soft, hitching sobs of the fledgling, and the roaring in all of their ears. Then, so softly that even Jonathan wasn't sure he heard it at first, Clark started to whisper apologies over and over again. He was starting to rock a bit in his chair, his head hung as low as he could get it, his hands hiding his face. Jonathan tore his gaze away from his son to look back at Martha, who was weeping silently; she reached out for his hand, and when they touched, he could feel her strength, the anchor for the anchor. They shared a look and a squeeze of the hand, and then he turned back to their son and to the knowledge that it was time--the wound had been opened, drained, cleaned, and medicated, and now it was time for the protection of a bandage.

Jonathan dropped down into a crouch, nearly eye-level now with the slumped teenager, and finally let his basic nature take over. He reached up, gently tugged the boy's hands down and away from his face, and gathered his son in his arms, enfolding the trembling youth and cradling the dark head. He tucked the teen's face into the hollow at the front of his shoulder, feeling the hot fluid of tears soaking into his shirt. He tried for a moment to keep the embrace gentle, but soon found his arms wrapping tighter and tighter around the boy, as if he just could not get enough of his child into his arms at once. Jonathan forced himself to get a grip on the impulse before his son could find it difficult to breathe, but only barely, and as he buried his own face in his son's shoulder and then in his hair just behind the young ear, the farmer let a few of his own tears of relief seep through.

Never had Clark felt so… held as he did at that moment. His position on his father's shoulder was not natural for him, but at that moment he could not even think of shifting; it was surprisingly comforting, having that strength of bone and muscle shielding him while his aching eyes were sheltered in that bit of softness. He certainly felt like a small child, being cradled and even cuddled, but he couldn't fight against the feeling of smallness, and in that moment when he felt his father's tears and felt his father's hand go to work rubbing his back while the other arm continued to hold him securely, he realized that Jonathan Kent was doing something that Jor-El could never do--he was showing that he had the courage to be vulnerable and still be a fortress.

Minutes that felt like seconds passed before Jonathan gently, reluctantly pulled back and helped his son to sit up in the chair and then turned him again to the table. He murmured to him to eat a few more bites and drink his water, and then the farmer turned to his wife, who looked as though she'd never been more proud of him. They embraced and then kissed, a soft, sweet kiss made of relief. After a few moments of silent contact, they parted and Jonathan began clearing the counters as he knew his wife preferred each night. It wasn't long, though, before a soft noise from her caught his attention, and he turned to her and then followed her twitching lips and tilting gaze.

Clark Kent, superteen, boy of steel, kid who could leap tall buildings in a single bound as long as no one expected him to hit his targeted landing point, had nodded off over his cold casserole, fork halfway through cutting his next bite. The parents smiled at one another, and Jonathan sent up a quick thanks that he still had his borrowed strength as he gingerly pulled out the dining chair, slipped his arms into place, and stood up cradling his sleeping son as he had years ago. With a wink for Martha, Jonathan carried their boy out of the kitchen and up to be tucked into bed, just as it had been in the beginning, when Jonathan had been a hero and Clark had wanted to be just like his father.

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End file.
